


tension and release

by pollinaire



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Caretaking, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Massage, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Service Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-18 01:12:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18975811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollinaire/pseuds/pollinaire
Summary: Hank closes his eyes.  He feels Connor’s fingertips at his hairline, the gentle scrub of Connor’s nails carding against his scalp.  He dutifully works his wet hands through Hank’s silver hair until it’s damp and tame.   By the time the strands are all slicked back and tucked behind his ears, he feels dazed, more relaxed than he has any right to be.  The measured, careful motion of Connor’s hands have already soothed away the more superficial aching tension he’s been holding onto for the past few hours.Hank is perfectly, 100% capable of taking care of himself.  If only Connor would let him.





	tension and release

Hank would have slammed the door shut, if he could.

Instead, he lets Fowler’s office door swing closed behind him, and trudges to his desk one furious, limping step at a time.

“Three days medical leave,” he says to Connor through gritted teeth. “Bare minimum.”

Connor, perched on the corner of Hank’s desk, nods in sympathy. “Three days sounds about right. You need bed rest.”

“Like fuck I do.” Hank grabs his keys from his coat pocket and motions for Connor to follow him to the parking lot. He’s polite enough to keep in step with Hank’s slow movements.

“Hank, a back injury can be quite serious. I think you should consider going to the hospital.”

“No.” Hank stares straight ahead while he walks, refusing to meet Connor’s eyes. “Fuck no. There’s a lot of shit you can get me to do, Connor, but getting me into the goddamn emergency room isn’t going to be one of them.”

“...Understood, Lieutenant.”

“Just when things were starting to get good, just when I was really getting back into-- into being someone who can actually do his _fucking_ job--” Hank cuts himself off with a huff.

“You _are_ doing your job. You’re a good officer.” Connor opens the passenger door to Hank’s car. “Get in. I can drive.”

Hank finds himself getting into the passenger’s seat, carefully easing himself in as he braces on Connor’s arm. He’s surprised but grateful for the offer, in too much dull aching pain to focus on the drive home.

“You hate driving vintage.”

He knows he must really be in the shit when Connor doesn’t answer him. He doesn’t say anything at all until he’s pulled out onto the street and they’re headed for home.

“I really do mean it, Hank. You only got yourself hurt because you were doing your job.”

“I’ve tackled plenty of perps with guns in my career.” He watches the hula girl on the dashboard sway back and forth, lets his racing thoughts slow to match her steady swing. “First time I landed on my ass and threw out my back, though.”

“Thank you, Hank.” Connor keeps his eyes on the road, but he’s smiling fondly when he speaks.

_______________________

 

“Good evening, Sumo.”

Connor pauses in the doorway to pet the velveteen fur on Sumo’s head. Hank, leaning heavily into his side for support, closes his eyes with a groan.

“He’s a dog, Connor. You don’t need to talk to him like that.”

Connor ignores him.

“Don’t listen to daddy. He’s just cranky because his back hurts. Why don’t you go sleep in your doghouse tonight? It’s a nice night outside.”

Connor holds the door open behind him. To Hank’s disbelief, Sumo boofs once, picks up his favorite rawhide chew from where it sits on the floor in a shallow puddle of slobber, and bounds out the front door.

“Christ, you’ve got that dog even more whipped than me.”

“Mm, maybe not quite. I’ll have to go check on him in a little while to be sure he hasn’t gotten into the trash.”

Connor slips his arm back around Hank’s waist and starts to move them forward.

“Alright, that’s good,” Hank says, out of breath from the three hobbling steps they’ve taken since walking through the door. “I got it from here.”

“I have to disagree, Hank. Sorry, but I’m going to help you into the bath. I insist.”

Hank isn’t an old man. Some days, he wakes up and his entire body screams in disagreement, but he’s barely into middle age. Having his significantly younger, significantly more capable boyfriend help him into a hot bath makes him feel self-conscious in ways he hasn’t touched on since he hit his 50th birthday. The past few years haven’t been easy on him.

The bow-tight tension in his back wins out. He doesn’t even consider raising an argument.

Instead, they take short, shallow steps down the hallway and around the corner, into the bathroom. Hank can feel the beads of sweat forming along his forehead, and he knows Connor has picked up on the way his chest is heaving with each breath. His lower back feels like a freshly struck match, brought back to flame with every step.

When they get to the cool tile of the bathroom floor, Connor drops his arm from around Hank’s waist. He’s clearly unsure how much help Hank needs, and he hovers a little awkwardly at Hank’s side.

“Go check on the dog,” Hank finally says. “I can at least handle getting my own clothes off.”

“Got it.”

He can feel Connor taking one last concerned look from the doorway as he unbuttons his shirt, but Hank doesn’t call him on it. Truthfully, he isn’t entirely certain he can handle it, but his pride won’t rest easy until he does this on his own.

It takes him at least five minutes to shed all of his clothes. He’s just stepping out of his boxers when he hears Connor bring Sumo back into the house, scolding him in an unduly gentle voice.

“I knew you were more well-behaved than Sumo.” Connor appears back in the doorway without his sportscoat or his tie, shirt cuffs folded up to his elbows, and the buttons around his collar undone. “I found him sniffing around that baby bunny nest.”

Hank snorts. “I told you, he’s not going to hurt them. He’s big, but he’s very gentle.”

“I just don’t want to chance it.” Connor sniffs as he turns the faucet of the bathtub. “I’ll be right back.”

On his way out the door, Connor scoops up Hank’s discarded clothes and places them in the laundry basket. Hank is pretty certain he would get a scolding too, if he weren’t in too much pain to bend over and pick them up himself. He shuffles closer to the rim of the bathtub. The hot steam rises off the running water in wispy white tendrils, and the promise of heat working on his strained muscles is almost enough to make him cry.

When Connor returns this time, he’s got Hank’s soft cotton house robe draped over his arm and a bottle of beer in his hand. He sets them down on the table by the doorway and comes to Hank’s side.

“Easy, now.” Connor extends his forearm for Hank to hold onto as he eases him to the back of the tub. “Big step up.”

“This isn’t my first bath, you know.”

“Just take it slow.”

Hank wishes he could do anything other than take it slow. He lifts one foot, and then the other, and he holds onto Connor’s arm with a grip tight enough to bruise.

“Jesus, I feel like I’m a hundred,” Hank sinks to his knees at first, and then shuffles back onto his ass with trepidation.

The water feels almost scalding, but the heat teases relief on his strained muscles. He moans, embarrassingly loud in the hollow acoustics of the tiled shower walls, and closes his eyes. Connor must have put a record on the turntable when he slipped out earlier. He can hear it now that the faucet is turned off, an indistinguishable backdrop of coffee shop jazz. The sentiment is sweet, if a little maudlin.

“I thought this might help you unwind a little.” Connor is standing at his side with the beer from earlier, already uncapped. “I don’t want to encourage bad habits, but you’ve really been managing yourself well lately.”

“You’re a peach.” What Hank really wants is to knock the bottle back in one go, but he sets it down on the rim of the tub after he takes a single swig.

Connor perches on the porcelain ledge of the bathtub, long legs swung to the side. He has a fresh, clean washcloth in his hand, and he dips it into the water and wrings it out in one fluid motion. It feels warm and soothing when he places it on Hank’s upper back, rubbing in circles with very light pressure.

“Is the music to help me unwind a little too, or are you planning to seduce me?” Hank says, and he immediately feels the steady motion of the washcloth falter in Connor’s hand.

“Your back is in bad enough shape as it is, Hank. How can you think about sex at a time like this?”

“What, with me naked at your mercy? Your shirt unbuttoned, the steam making that hair of yours curl against your forehead?”

“And you’ve got the nerve to call me insatiable.” Connor straightens his posture behind him.

“Just fucking with you, kid.”

When Hank nudges himself forward to grab his beer from the side of the bath, Connor takes the opportunity to scrub steadily and gently down his lower back. Once he’s satisfied, he folds the washcloth into a neat rectangle, freshly wets it, and drapes it around Hank’s neck.

Hank closes his eyes. He feels Connor’s fingertips at his hairline, the gentle scrub of Connor’s nails carding against his scalp. He dutifully works his wet hands through Hank’s silver hair until it’s damp and tame. By the time the strands are all slicked back and tucked behind his ears, he feels dazed, more relaxed than he has any right to be. The measured, careful motion of Connor’s hands have already soothed away the more superficial aching tension he’s been holding onto for the past few hours.

The squelch of Connor pouring shampoo into his hands behind him makes Hank want to protest. I can wash my own hair, he imagines himself saying. Nothing wrong with my arms. Instead, he tilts his head back and lets Connor run the product through his hair.

Starting gently and close to the scalp, Connor runs his fingertips in slow, repetitive strokes through Hank’s hair. The scent of lavender and eucalyptus gives it away-- Connor’s broken into his own personal stash of the good, expensive shit for this. Unfounded guilt tugs at Hank’s mind. He must be looking pretty pitiful for Connor to take his grooming into his own hands, he realizes, and lays his head back against Connor’s knee with a groan. When he opens his eyes, he sees Connor’s exasperatingly soft smile bearing down on him.

“You’re really getting into this, aren’t you,” he mutters. Hank hopes he doesn’t mind the resignation in his voice.

“It’s nice. Or at least it was until you got my pants wet,” Connor says as he draws his nails in gentle circles against Hank’s hairline. “Though I can tell that you’re enjoying this too, Hank. It’s not so often I see you this relaxed.”

They’re both quiet for a long moment, Hank staring up into Connor’s face like he’s staring at the blue sky of a perfect afternoon, until he feels like he’s falling upwards and headed straight into the sun. His cheeks burn warm enough to scorch the shame out of him.

“Here,” Connor’s voice starts soft and warm enough that Hank barely notices he’s spoken at all. “Put your head up so I can rinse.”

Hank does as he’s told, tipping his head back until Connor is pouring a cup of warm water through his hair, cupping a hand around his forehead and guiding the stream away from his face. Once his hair is clean, Connor repeats the process with conditioner, something Hank would never admit to Connor that he rarely does.

“You look very handsome with your hair slicked back, Hank. I thought I should say.”

And Hank is starting to _feel_ handsome, even with the throb of his lower back nagging at his mind. He feels soft and clean, cosseted with all of Connor’s attention on him in the privacy of their bathroom. For the past few minutes, Connor has been humming along to to the record playing out in the living room, a Nina Simone tune that they’ve danced to once or twice. The memory gives him something to smile about as Connor continues to run his hands through his damp hair.

Naturally, he deflects.

“I can take it from here if you’ve got something better to do.”

Hank is looking at the tile in front of him, but he can see perfectly the way Connor’s eyebrows pinch together. Connor stops carding his fingers against his skin. “I’m not leaving you alone. I like doing this for you.” He moves a hand down to Hank’s shoulder to give it a little squeeze. “You look out for me. You do it all the time. Let me take care of you.”

Hank reaches for the bottle of beer and puts it back down on the floor when he finds it empty. He shifts against the porcelain tub with a sigh. “Whatever makes you happy…”

It’s easier this way, as it usually is, to give in to Connor’s willfulness. It’s a fight he won’t win, and if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t want to.

“Okay.” Connor places a hand on each of Hank’s shoulders. “In that case, I’m going to rub your back now. It should help to loosen and realign the muscles.” He squeezes the thick slope of his shoulders and presses his thumbs into the sides of his neck. It’s nowhere close to where his back aches, but the firm pressure as Connor runs his hands down his shoulders already teases some of the tightness from his posture.

Connor continues speaking, tone even and inquisitive, while his hands move down his ribcage and out to his sides. “I need to ask you a question, Hank.” Connor’s hands are warm and damp enough to slide across Hank’s bare skin with just enough pressure to draw out the soreness, and all Hank can do is respond with a moan. “Why did you refuse to let me take you to the hospital?”

“Saw that one coming,” Hank grits his teeth. “It’s hard to explain, Connor. I haven’t set foot in a hospital in years.”

“A back injury can be quite dangerous in some circumstances. Given your history, I know it might be painful, but…” Connor pauses to brace a hand against Hank’s spine while he uses the other to knead into the flesh of Hank’s waist. His voice is strong, but careful. “I’d like you to work on moving past this.”

“You and me both, babydoll.” Hank gives a sardonic, self-deprecating smile that Connor can barely see from where he’s seated.

“If you need more time and space to heal, I can give that to you. But your avoidance of painful subjects worries me.”

Hank stays quiet. He had three years of all the space and time to himself he could ask for, and he nearly destroyed himself with it. His neck falls forward as Connor digs his thumbs into the meat of his back, travelling in a long stroke up either side of his spine.

“No, I don’t-- I don’t need more space.” His head feels strangely empty, the jazz record gone quiet now, and all he can hear is the rhythmic splashing of water behind his own tumbling thoughts.

“Please just promise me,” Connor puts his hands on Hank’s deltoid muscles and rubs them lightly with his thumbs, “that you won’t let it have a negative effect on your health.”

Tipping his head back, he lets Connor press a kiss to his forehead. “You could ask me for a new puppy right now, and I’d promise to get you one in the morning.” Hank leans against Connor’s legs again, shifting his back against his knees to grind out one last knot of tension.

“We can get a new puppy?” Connor leans forward to wrap his arms around Hank’s neck.

“Fuck no.”

“Can’t blame me for trying,” Connor mutters as he sits upright. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” Hank sits back up and stretches the best he can, the strain making him groan pathetically. “Still sore as shit, but I think I’ll live. You did good, kid.”

Connor takes obvious pride in the commendation. Hank can see it in the way he strides across the room to grab a clean, fluffy towel from where it hangs on the wall.

“We should get you dried off and into bed.”

As much as he hates the idea of moving, he’s more than ready to lie down somewhere soft and comfortable. Hank flicks the drain down on the tub and manages to ease himself over until he’s halfway standing, ready to brace himself on Connor’s waiting arm. By the time he’s sitting up on the edge of the bathtub, he’s winded again. Connor is gracious enough to just let him sit, patting down his chest and arms with the soft cotton towel, hovering over his shoulder in a way that Hank is surprised he finds comforting, rather than nagging.

“Nine-thirty and you’re all ready to put the old man to bed,” Hank grumbles.

Connor kneels in front of Hank to work on drying off his legs, diligently catching the streaks of water before they can puddle on the bathmat under them.

“I didn’t say you had to go to sleep.” Connor looks up at him from between his knees with a dark shine in his eyes.

Hank snorts. “If you think you can get either one of us off before I fall asleep, then be my guest.”

“You know how much I enjoy a challenge, Hank.” Connor stands again and uses the towel to dry his hair this time, giving his wet strands a gentle squeeze before stroking through with his fingers to comb it out. He twists a lock of hair around his fingers. “Your hair is quite soft and curly when it’s freshly washed.”

Fatigue hits him like a freight train. If he was tired before, he’s exhausted now, the soothing warmth of the water and Connor’s hands all over him leaving him loose and relaxed. Connor must notice, because soon he’s wrapping Hank up in his well-worn cotton robe, helping him to his feet with Hank’s arm slung over his shoulder.

The walk to the bedroom is thankfully short, a few faltering steps that they take carefully, one at a time. Connor eases Hank into sitting on the edge of the mattress before shutting the bedroom door and turning on a small lamp, and Hank shuffles himself back onto the bed. Hank stares shamelessly as Connor unbuttons and slips out of his pants, half-dressed and bathed in the dim yellow light.

“I’d throw you over my shoulder and carry you over here myself if I could,” he says. “Guess that’s kind of out of the question tonight, though.”

“I told you I would take care of you, didn’t I?” Connor slides himself onto the bed, thighs straddling Hank’s broad waist, and reaches down to stroke his shoulder.

Connor shuffles down to kneel between Hank’s legs. Once he’s situated on all fours, he stared up at him with eyes blown and blinking in the dark of their bedroom. Hank rewards him by pulling loose the belt on his robe.

Connor dips his head to nuzzle against his bare stomach, rubbing his nose into the patch of thick, soft hair beneath his navel. He presses kisses into Hank’s newly exposed skin, keeping his eyes shut so that his lashes skim the top of his cheekbones. It’s incredible, Hank thinks, that as many times as he’s seen Connor like this, it still leaves him tongue-tied and disbelieving. He wants to give to Connor what Connor gives to him, the feeling of standing on the edge of a steep precipice, ready to jump, and being unafraid of what will meet you at the bottom.

Connor keeps his head low, focused on kissing a slow, steady path down to Hank’s thighs. He rests his head against Hank’s leg and finally looks back up to meet his eyes. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” He knits his brow. “We can just go to sleep, if you’re in too much pain.”

“What happened to that challenge you love so much, huh?” Hank gives Connor’s cheek a rough pat. “You’re not ready to give up yet, are you Connor?” 

“No,” Connor says defensively, obstinately. “It’s just been a long day for you.”

“Well, the faster you get to it, the faster you can get back up here and fall asleep next to me. How about that?”

Connor answers him with a tongue pressed flat against the line of his hips. He licks him just enough to wet his skin, and he takes Hank’s cock gently between his thumb and forefinger. He kisses his way over until his lips are ghosting over the shaft, twitching in anticipation against the sensitive skin with his open mouth.

Hank fists a hand in Connor’s hair. The hair on his arm is already standing on end, and he holds Connor’s head still as he grinds his dick against his face. It slides along Connor’s cheek before Hank gives another thrust, and Connor catches it this time, parting his mouth to let the thick bulk of it slide against his lips.

Hank loosens his grip and instead brings it to Connor's cheek for another pat, soft this time. Encouraging. Connor licks at the base before bringing himself to take the head in his mouth.

"That's good," he breathes through his clenched teeth. "Just like that is perfect."

Connor moves down, taking the bulk of it in until the cock hits the back of his throat, and closes his eyes. His lips are tugged in a tiny smirk of satisfaction, pleased with himself for pleasing Hank.

Connor keeps himself in position, dick resting against the wet silicone of his soft palate, for what feels like an eternity to Hank. It's nothing he doesn't enjoy, but he feels like he could fall asleep here, still warm and drowsy from the heat of the bath. Hank shifts his hips upwards in an unspoken order.

"Mmfgp," Connor makes an indelicate noise as he pulls off Hank's prick entirely. His cock is flushed and covered in glossy wet spit, giving a twitch in the warm air between their bodies. Connor takes it back in his palm and rubs his thumb against the skin.

"As much as I love it when you do that," Hank grouses, "I'm pretty sure you promised to make me come tonight."

"Sorry, Hank," Connor apologizes with a kiss pressed to the tip. "I got carried away."

"It's alright. I’ll let you keep my cock warm some other time." He nestles his head back into the pillow with a sigh. "Tomorrow's another day."

Connor takes his penis back in his mouth, halfway this time, and works the rest of the shaft with a loose grip. His mouth is dripping wet, spit leaking down around his fingers, keeping his entire cock warm and slick.

Hank cards his hands through Connor's hair again. This pace is much nicer, much easier for Hank to handle when his back is still aching and his eyes are slipping shut.

There's a soft, wet sound after Connor switches out the hand he's got wrapped around Hank's length, and Hank is pretty sure Connor has started fingering himself. From where he's looking down, there are tears gathered just in the corner of Connor's eyes, starting to well larger as he moves his hand to take Hank deeper down his throat again.

Connor is rocking back and forth, working his fingers deeper into his ass, before bouncing up on his toes to get as much dick in his mouth as he can.

"Good boy," Hank praises. "Going to get us both off, huh?"

Spit and a thin stream of precum leak from the corner of his mouth. Connor hums in affirmation, his mouth too full to speak. He pulls off entirely, breathing heavy, with a thin track of tears on his cheeks.

Before Connor, Hank had never considered the specifics of having oral sex with an android. If pressed, he might figure that an android wouldn't have a gag reflex, and wouldn't have an issue holding their breath for an indefinite amount of time. He was off track. There were still preventative measures in place to make sure they didn't choke, didn't have their throats stuffed so full that their delicate internal components were damaged. He never expected that he could make Connor gag around his dick, or that Connor would ever want him to hold his head in place while he fucked into his mouth.

He won't do that, not tonight. Hank thinks about it. Despite how much Connor might like it, it felt like a pretty lousy way to repay him for the rest of the evening.

Instead, he grabs Connor by the arm and pulls him closer so they can see face to face this time. He kisses the tears on Connor's cheek, and he gets a shaky, breathy smile in return.

"Hey," he says against his skin. "Stay close to me. I want to see what you're doing."

Connor nods once. "Okay."

He shuffles around so his knees are on either side of Hank's head, carefully taking his dick in his hands. He gives a few long, slow strokes and kisses the shaft. Hank is fully stiff, flushed and leaking pale beads of cum that get stuck to Connor's lips and cheeks.

Hank presses his thumbs against the cleft of Connor's ass and spreads his cheeks. He can still see the damp patches of spit left from when Connor fingered himself open, shining in the low light. He circles his hole and slips an index finger inside. Connor is loose enough from his own hands that he finds no resistance, easily able to twist his fingers and stroke while Connor pants against his cock.

"Doing good?" He runs his nails down Connor's ass and watches him shiver.

"Yes," Connor is all says before he takes Hank into his mouth again.

Hank is doing pretty good himself. He's moving his fingers in and out of Connor's ass slowly; probably a good part more slowly than Connor would like. He doesn't mean to tease, exactly. It's just hard to pass up seeing Connor come unbuttoned.

Despite the distraction, Connor is working hard to keep his composure. He keeps his mouth against Hank's cock, tongue moving eagerly over his shaft and down to his balls.

Hank keeps his pace steady as he works his two fingers in Connor’s hole, bringing his arm around to stroke Connor’s own dick. The sudden attention makes him writhe, and he shifts back to push Hank’s fingers further in his ass.

Connor comes quickly, with no warning other than a hand clutching at the air before he does. He grips Hank's thigh in his hand, gasping, and lays his head in his lap. A few loose tears fall onto this thighs, but Hank can feel Connor's eyelashes flutter against his legs as he blinks the rest away. He pets Connor’s back while he catches his breath.

He’s still breathing heavily in Hank’s lap when he continues working, mouthing at the tip of Hank’s cock and holding it loosely in his hand. He tongues at him, lazily. Like the two of them kissing in the silent, sleepless hours in the middle of the night. The thought brings Hank close himself, the soft curve of his stomach clenching when Connor nuzzles into his groin with a contented sigh.

“Connor, I’m going to come,” he warns with a firm pat to Connor’s side.

“On my face, please.”

The request has his cock twitching, a final prickle of arousal hitting him in the gut. He spills over onto Connor’s face in a long, wet dribble, streaks of cum speckled across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks like a second set of freckles. If Hank looks at him closely, and he does, he can see the side of Connor’s mouth lift up in a crooked little smile.

“C’mere,” Hank grumbles and yanks him by the arm again. This time, he lays back and nests himself in the pillows, shuffling Connor to lay tucked up into his side against him. He’s warm, warmer than usual. Connor is a solid, heavy weight in his arms, a comforting pressure like he’s back in the hot water of the bath.

“Aw fuck, you’re making a mess.” Hank looks down to where Connor has buried his head against his chest, leaving behind a sticky trail where he pressed his cheek. “Can’t you clean up first?”

“You moved me here,” Connor defends, even as he removes himself from Hank’s side and stands up with a smooth, languid stretch. “If you’re having symptoms of age-related memory loss, we should have a serious talk.”

Hank manages to hold his tongue, but he does crumple his discarded house robe into a ball and throw it at Connor’s back as he heads for the hallway. Connor retaliates with maturity and picks it up to hang on the back of the bedroom door.

“Here,” Connor prompts gently when he comes back. He holds out two pills and a glass of cold water. “Ibuprofen.”

Hank downs the medicine and the full glass of water in one long drink. “You’ve still got a little, uh…” he gestures at his face.

Connor swats him on the shoulder. “I haven’t been to wash up yet. I wanted to make sure you took something before you fell asleep.”

As much as Hank might deny it, Connor has the right idea. By the time he returns again, face freshly washed and warm towel in hand, he’s dozing off where Connor left him. He cracks his tired eyes open when Connor sits on the bed beside him.

He tugs the blanket around Hank’s waist and begins to pat him down with the soft, damp cloth. “Do you think you’ll be comfortable sleeping on your back?”

“Don’t think I have much of a choice.” He strokes Connor’s hair as he works. “Can’t even turn onto my side.”

Connor hums thoughtfully, pulling back the blanket to gently clean off Hank’s hips, his thighs, his soft cock. He tosses the washcloth into the floor. With his hands free, he can thread them into Hank’s damp hair, hold his head in his hands, and rub circles into Hank’s temples with his thumbs.

When Connor’s hands have slowed and the two of them have grown too sleepy to keep their eyes open, he sinks down into Hank’s waiting arms. Connor tucks the blanket around them before pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“Three days on bed rest, huh,” Hank sighs. “I guess that won’t be so bad.”


End file.
